Uncle Silas, by J. Sheridan Le Fanu

Chapter 26

The Story of Uncle Silas

AND SO it was like the yelling of phantom hounds and hunters, and the thunder of their coursers in
the air — a furious, grand and supernatural music, which in my fancy made a suitable accompaniment to the discussion of
that enigmatical person — martyr — angel — demon — Uncle Silas — with whom my fate was now so strongly linked, and whom
I had begun to fear.

“The storm blows from that point,” I said, indicating it with my hand and eye, although the window shutters and
curtains were closed. “I saw all the trees bend that way this evening. That way stands the great lonely wood, where my
darling father and mother lie. Oh, how dreadful on nights like this, to think of them — a vault! — damp, and dark, and
solitary — under the storm.”

Cousin Monica looked wistfully in the same direction, and with a short sigh she said —

“We think too much of the poor remains, and too little of the spirit which lives for ever. I am sure they are
happy.” And she sighed again. “I wish I dare hope as confidently for myself. Yes, Maud, it is sad. We are such
materialists, we can’t help feeling so. We forget how well it is for us that our present bodies are not to last always.
They are constructed for a time and place of trouble — plainly mere temporary machines that wear out, constantly
exhibiting failure and decay, and with such tremendous capacity for pain. The body lies alone, and so it ought for it
is plainly its good Creator’s will; it is only the tabernacle, not the person, who is clothed upon after death, Saint
Paul says, ‘with a house which is from heaven.’ So Maud, darling, although the thought will trouble us again and again,
there is nothing in it; and the poor mortal body is only the cold ruin of a habitation which they have forsaken before
we do. So this great wind, you say, is blowing toward us from the wood there. If so, Maud, it is blowing from
Bartram–Haugh, too, over the trees and chimneys of that old place, and the mysterious old man, who is quite right in
thinking I don’t like him; and I can fancy him an old enchanter in his castle, waving his familiar spirits on the wind
to fetch and carry tidings of our occupations here.”

I lifted my head and listened to the storm, drying away to the distance sometimes — sometimes swelling and pealing
around and above us — and through the dark and solitude my thoughts sped away to Bartram–Haugh and Uncle Silas.

“This letter,” I said at last,” makes me feel differently. I think he is a stern old man — is he?”

“It is twenty years, now, since I saw him,” answered Lady Knollys. “I did not choose to visit at his house.”

“Was that before the dreadful occurrence at Bartram–Haugh?”

“Yes — before, dear. He was not a reformed rake, but only a ruined one then. Austin was very good to him. Mr.
Danvers says it is quite unaccountable how Silas can have made away with the immense sums he got from his brother from
time to time without benefiting himself in the least. But, my dear, he played; and trying to help a man who plays, and
is unlucky — and some men are, I believe, habitually unlucky — is like trying to fill a vessel that has no bottom. I
think, by-the-by, my hopeful nephew, Charles Oakley, plays. Then Silas went most unjustifiably into all manner of
speculations, and your poor father had to pay everything. He lost something quite astounding in that bank that ruined
so many country gentlemen — poor Sir Harry Shackleton, in Yorkshire, had to sell half his estate. But your kind father
went on helping him, up to his marriage — I mean in that extravagant way which was really totally useless.”

“Has my aunt been long dead?”

“Twelve or fifteen years — more, indeed — she died before your poor mamma. She was very unhappy, and I am sure would
have given her right hand she had never married Silas.”

“Did you like her?”

“No, dear; she was a coarse, vulgar woman.”

“Coarse and vulgar, and Uncle Silas’s wife;” I echoed in extreme surprise, for Uncle Silas was a man of fashion — a
beau in his day — and might have married women of good birth and fortune, I had no doubt, and so I expressed
myself.”

“Yes, dear; so he might, and poor dear Austin was very anxious he should, and would have helped him with a handsome
settlement, I dare say, but he chose to marry the daughter of a Denbigh innkeeper.”

“How utterly incredible!” I exclaimed.

“Not the least incredible, dear — a kind of thing not at all so uncommon as you fancy.”

“What! — a gentleman of fashion and refinement marry a person ——”

“A barmaid! — just so,” said Lady Knollys. “I think I could count half a dozen men of fashion who, to my knowledge,
have ruined themselves just in a similar way.”

“Well, at all events, it must be allowed that in this he proved himself altogether unworldly.”

“Not a bit unworldly, but very vicious,” replied Cousin Monica, with a careless little laugh. “She was very
beautiful, curiously beautiful, for a person in her station. She was very like that Lady Hamilton who was Nelson’s
sorceress — elegantly beautiful, but perfectly low and stupid. I believe, to do him justice, he only intended to ruin
her; but she was cunning enough to insist upon marriage. Men who have never in all their lives denied themselves an
indulgence of a single fancy, cost what it may, will not be baulked even by that condition if the penchant be only
violent enough.”

I did not half understand this piece of worldly psychology, at which Lady Knollys seemed to laugh.

“Poor Silas, certainly he struggled honestly against the consequences, for he tried after the honeymoon to prove the
marriage bad. But the Welsh parson and the innkeeper papa were too strong for him, and the young lady was able to hold
her struggling swain fast in that respectable noose — and a pretty prize he proved!”

“And she died, poor thing, broken-hearted, I heard.”

“She died, at all events, about ten years after her marriage; but I really can’t say about her heart. She certainly
had enough ill-usage, I believe, to kill her; but I don’t know that she had feeling enough to die of it, if it had not
been that she drank: I am told that Welsh women often do. There was jealousy, of course, and brutal quarrelling, and
all sorts of horrid stories. I visited at Bartram–Haugh for a year or two, though no one else would. But when that sort
of thing began, of course I gave it up; it was out of the question. I don’t think poor Austin ever knew how bad it was.
And then came that odious business about wretched Mr. Clarke. You know he — he committed suicide at Bartram.”

“I never heard about that,” I said; and we both paused, and she looked sternly at the fir, and the storm roared and
ha-ha-ed till the old house shook again.

“But Uncle Silas could not help that,” I said at last.

“No, he could not help it,” she acquiesced unpleasantly.

“And Uncle Silas was”— I pause din a sort of fear.

“He was suspected by some people of having killed him”— she completed the sentence.

There was another long pause here, during which the storm outside bellowed and hooted like an angry mob roaring at
the windows for a victim. An intolerable and sickening sensation overpowered me.

“But you did not suspect him, Cousin Knollys?” I said, trembling very much.

“No,” she answered very sharply. “I told you so before. Of course I did not.”

There was another silence.

“I wish, Cousin Monica,” I said, drawing close to her, “you had not said that about Uncle Silas being like a wizard,
and sending his spirits on the wind to listen. But I’m very glad you never suspected him.” I insinuated my cold hand
into hers, and looked into her face I know not with what expression. She looked down into mine with a hard, haughty
stare, I thought.

“Of course I never suspected him; and never ask me that question again, Maud Ruthyn.”

Was if family pride, or what was it, that gleamed so fiercely from her eyes as she said this? I was frightened — I
was wounded — I burst into tears.

“What is my darling crying for? I did not mean to be cross. Was I cross?” said this momentary phantom of a grim Lady
Knollys, in an instant translated again into kind, pleasant Cousin Monica, with her arms about my neck.

“No, no, indeed — only I thought I had vexed you; and, I believe, thinking of Uncle Silas makes me nervous, and I
can’t help thinking of him nearly always.”

“Nor can I, although we might both easily find something better to think of. Suppose we try?” said Lady Knollys.

“But, first, I must know a little more about that Mr. Clarke, and what circumstances enabled Uncle Silas’s enemies
to found on his death that wicked slander, which has done no one any good, and caused some persons so much misery.
There is Uncle Silas, I may say, ruined by it; and we all know how it darkened the life of my dear father.”

“People will talk, my dear. Your uncle Silas had injured himself before that in the opinion of the people of his
county. He was a black sheep, in fact. Very bad stories were told and believed of him. His marriage certainly was a
disadvantage, you know, and the miserable scenes that went on in his disreputable house — all that predisposed people
to believe ill of him.”

“How long is it since it happened?”

“Oh, a long time; I think before you were born,” answered she.

“And the injustice still lives — they have not forgotten it yet?” said I, for such a period appeared to me long
enough to have consigned anything in its nature perishable to oblivion.

Lady Knollys smiled.

“Tell me, like a darling cousin, the whole story as well as you can recollect it. Who was Mr. Clarke?”

“Mr. Clarke, my dear, was a gentleman on the turf — that is the phrase, I think — one of those London men, without
birth or breeding, who merely in right of their vices and their money are admitted to associate with young dandies who
like hounds and horses, and all that sort of thing. That set knew him very well, but of course no one else. He was at
the Matlock races, and your uncle asked him to Bartram–Haugh; and the creature, Jew or Gentile, or whatever he was,
fancied there was more honour than, perhaps, there really was in a visit to Bartram–Haugh.”

“For the kind of person you describe, it was, I think, a rather unusual honour to be invited to stay in the house of
a man of Uncle Ruthyn’s birth.”

“Well, so it was perhaps; for though they knew him very well on the course, and would ask him to their tavern
dinners, they would not, of course, admit him to the houses where ladies were. But Silas’s wife was not much regarded
at Bartram–Haugh. Indeed, she was very little seen, for she was every evening tipsy in her bedroom, poor woman!”

“How miserable!” I exclaimed.

“I don’t think it troubled Silas very much, for she drank gin, they said, poor thing, and the expense was not much;
and, on the whole, I really think he was glad she drank, for it kept her out of his way, and was likely to kill her. At
this time your poor father, who was thoroughly disgusted at his marriage, had stopped the supplies, you know, and Silas
was very poor, and as hungry as a hawk, and they said he pounced upon this rich London gamester, intending to win his
money. I am telling you know all that was said afterwards. The races lasted I forget how many days, and Mr. Clarke
stayed at Bartram–Haugh all this time and for some days after. It was thought that poor Austin would pay all Silas’s
gambling debts, and so this wretched Mr. Clarke made heavy wagers with him on the races, and they played very deep,
besides, at Bartram. He and Silas used to sit out afterwards, for there was an inquest, you know, and then Silas
published what he called his “statement,” and there was a great deal of most distressing correspondence in the
newspapers.”

“And why did Mr. Clarke kill himself?” I asked.

“Well, I will tell you first what all are agreed about. The second night after the races, your uncle and Mr. Clarke
sat up till between two and three o’clock in the morning, quite by themselves, in the parlour, Mr. Clarke’s servant was
at the Stag’s Head Inn at Feltram, and therefore could throw no light upon what occurred at night at Bartram–Haugh; but
he was there at six o’clock in the morning, and very early at his master’s door by his direction. He had locked it, as
was his habit, upon the inside, and the key was in the lock, which turned out afterwards a very important point. On
knocking he found that he could not awaken his master, because, as it appeared when the door was forced open, his
master was lying dead at his bedside, not in a pool, but a perfect pond of blood, as they described it, with his throat
cut.”

“How horrible!” cried I.

“So it was. Your uncle Silas was called up, and greatly shocked of course, and he did what I believe was best. He
had everything left as nearly as possible in the exact state in which it had been found, and he sent his own servant
forthwith for the coroner, and, being himself a justice of the peace, he took the depositions of Mr. Clarke’s servant
while all the incidents were still fresh in his memory.”

“Could anything be more straightforward, more right and wise?” I said.